Know I'm No Good
by HelloBunnie
Summary: "Through the scope of his rifle, he could see them whirling together at the gala." An AU fiction, set in what could be your modern day city. Explore their bizarre friendship while you still have the chance...


Author's Notes: Alrighty then, first of all, hello everyone. Welcome to my very first fanfic in a rather long time. It is a Final Fantasy VII Alternate Universe fic. With mild Cid/Vincent implications perhaps, but it will be mostly one sided and most likely paranoia induced. Constructive Criticism and/or reviews are very much appreciated, also I don't have any sort of Beta aside from my Boyfriend, so if some spelling errors or grammatical issues slip past, please let me know (I am typing on a child's size Hello Kitty keyboard here, and I will be the first to admit that doesn't always work in my favour) but this is also supposed to be stylized, so please bear that in mind. One more thing, some of this is inspired by a very old fic of mine that was FFVII/Metal Gear crossover. This first chapter is basically a rewrite. It has been almost 5 years and I still cannot get that storyline out of my head. Hoping to rectify that here. I was listening to "You Know that I'm No Good" by Amy Whinehouse whenever this idea came back to haunt me. This will be rated M to be safe.

As always, I don't own Final Fantasy VII of course, the song title that is conveniently my fic title, nor any references to any real life items that might make it into this. More importantly I am making no money off of this. Please enjoy.

Through the scope of his rifle, he could see them whirling together at the gala. His target, pompous and ignorant of the pending, sudden expiration of his life, was flirting brazenly with a girl, perhaps half his age, pretending to be polite while their observer knew she'd rather the bullet penetrate her own brain. Music wafted up to his position. He languidly trailed the sights over the nimble fingers dancing across the frets of violins, cellos and bases, and then to the trilling flutes and clarinets. He was within earshot, but didn't need the sound vibrating in his ear drums to know the orchestra was proficient.

He liked it, this plucky, unashamed waltz carrying over the piazza. At least, he thought he would like it, if he ever felt entitled to anything so full of life. Regrettably, he was a executioner of men, a literal Scythe of Death. He spent his time and earned his means of living by snipping the strings of mortals, by snuffing the brilliance of a candle called life. Of course, not every mortal's pyre stood luminous. Not all—not even a majority of his hits were remotely nice people. But to him, writhing in his own obscurity… To him, every existence was like a beacon, an anchor. Contrasting to his own reality—an unending pit; a gloomy side street…

He stopped himself short of concluding his ponderings. When he let himself brood, potentially terrible things ensued—to him and to others—that he knew were out if his control, what little control he had left. The band had transitioned to another piece of music. Regardless of the tempo, it abruptly sounded like a dirge, and it drew both his consideration and his scope back to the target. All around his mark, shimmering scales and sequins turned and twirled.

'Spawning koi,' he spat inwardly,' the wealthiest, the most prominent, the most untouchable, the most distanced from the very real terrors of poverty, of sickness. Even of Demise'

He only briefly considered, and subsequently dismissed, the very notion than any of these barreled fish could dream of a being, a monster such as himself could shatter the glass of their picture framed existence with an action as meek, minute and second nature to him as a flex of his pointer finger.

Sinister furrows overtook his placid brow, a dark smile his insipid and narrow lips. An unassuming pop, near synchronized to the timid pull of the rifle's trigger—she had just a bit of kick and wrench, sufficiently keeping him moored to this life, and this present—and knew he wouldn't need a second round. That was foreseen, of course. He never carried more than one for all of his self-assuredness.

Grinning all the while, he let his body soar on autopilot. He was systematic in his method of cleaning his post. Dissembling the rifle took little thought; he could, and had, done it in his sleep.

A pause then, to humbly caress the still searing barrel of She. It was ritualistic. A sacred way. An offering to a diabolical war Maiden, a mythical Goddess of destruction. And it lasted only fleetingly before the Goddess rambled her way to her established, velvet lined Temple. Snapping the case closed, he hesitated briefly, letting himself relish the rapture of screams, sirens and shouts. And Chaos. They all accompanied and pacified him after a job well done. Satisfactory. He allowed a sporadic, genuine smile then. His smoldering rubicund eyes scrunched in accompaniment.

Oh, you couldn't have possibly thought it was merely for the cash, now could you? He disreputably rejoiced in his work. It was _almost _**criminal.**

He made his home in a mildly dilapidated high rise apartment. Not for the astounding panoramic view—the thick window glass was persistently smudgy and scratched. Nor was it for the relatively inexpensive lease—it might've been decently priced, had the structure been raised in the right neighborhood (it was far from the bustling section of his glamorous hell hole of a city.) In fact, the only reason he felt the need to escape the elements was that the building was initially the residence of his friend. And his good friend was quite the pushover with some aspects… He considered it a practically appalling flaw.

'Friend? What is a friend?' he mused often. 'It must vary depending on the individual, but I feel as though a friend is a person, place or thing that I can habitually interact with and not feel the need to slaughter, maim or otherwise destroy.'

He was pleased of both his designation of the noun 'friend' and the simple fact he had met an individual fitting such a strict classification. A majority of the time. Usually. But not always, and that alone made his tolerance toward his roommate quite the conundrum. In truth, 'She' was the only creature that fit his interpretation without faltering. But She was never one for exuberant conversation. Instead, She's melancholic tête-à-tête of hush and stillness ebbed and flowed frequently; a language of their own understanding. It seared and prickled through his mind. On occasion, his façade would slip and the observant could read She and he's exchange upon his features.

But the stillness could only stimulate his cognizance so much. He fancied himself and intellectual man. He thought his friend quite the opposite concerning a great number of things. And this also puzzled him in regards to his attachment to his cotenant. His cotenant was a bit of a gear head, owning a repair shop mainly dealing in the sales, maintenance and restoration of antique pocket watches. A mindless, repetitive job. All damn ticking would, without a doubt, would render him nonsensical.

But there was attachment, and he had perceived that it seemed far from one-sided. Coming in from the night's labor, he might find a bowl of slovenly prepared, yet appetizing foodstuffs placed haphazardly in the refrigeration unit. From time to time, accompanying the bowl would be a hastily scrawled note chastising him about keeping more regular hours "because some of us have to get up at six o'damn clock in the godforsaken morning," or occasionally a crude drawing of the male reproductive organ. Another smile would grace his lips, languid and perhaps more unpretentious than usual. Sometimes he forgets to bite back a soft chuckle. How trusting his roommate, having no knowledge of the merciless reaper, armed with a set of keys fitting the locks to the high rise. Most would make an attempt to shun him; to shut him out. Here, he could come and go and carrying out his work and no one lifted a finger against it.

On the weekends, he would indulge back. Something for his roomie's kindness and understanding. Purchasing a selection of fine, expensive alcohols for his colleague and letting him get plastered. Not one for such displays of inebriation he would nurse a single scotch on the rocks, perched in front of their perpetually smeary window.

He felt completely contented, listening to his friend, nodding or shaking his head. He had previously articulated wholly with movements, with gestures—a sideways look, a subtle clench of the muscles in his fingers. He was familiar with this communication. He was familiar with it, as he was familiar with She and She would had taught him the language. His roommate had ceased poking fun—it was a game to the pair of them. A game with a prize, he concluded.

An off-the-cuff comment. A coquettish smile. An astounded roommate.

"Would you like to know what I do, Cid? I kill people. But I like you. So you shouldn't worry. I do not wish, currently, to relinquish a bullet in you.** "

And at that point, Vincent was sure his roommate had passed into unconsciousness. 'A shame, he must've missed my confession,' he relented and shook his head. He had regularly advised Cid against drinking so much.

Tucking turncoat strands of raven tresses behind his ears, Vincent strolled away from the window. Unceremoniously, he encouraged Cid's bulk onto the floor. Cid had the bedroom, after all, and the Ravenhaired, being merely a guest, bedded down nightly in the living room. It wasn't his fault his roommate chose the living room to faint in a drunken stupor.

As an afterthought, he folded and tucked Cid's ratty blue jacket underneath the mess of blonde hair and draped a stray blanket over his form. Cid's feet, clad in discoloured socks, poked out the far end of his blanket, to which lithe shoulders regarded with a shrug. He was already comfortable and warm.

Pleased, he realized what a compassionate friend he was truly becoming and said a mental goodnight to She before drifting off.

There you have it! The first chapter. I hope you guys follow it okay. Vincent isn't horridly OOC is he? This isn't how I normal depict him. (If this wasn't AU I would contemplate shunning my own portrayal right now.) As of currently, the second is in the works and you guys are going to get a bit more background story and some Cid Highwind P.O.V.! Ha… Microsoft thinks 'Highwind' is a typo. Yea, right, /snort. But first, a single author's note

**Mass Effect 2 reference. Wheee Renegade FemShepard makes so much sense considering the story, but she is a bitch! Hehe. Kudos to whomever can remember when she's talking about relinquishing bullets :]

Thanks so much! Please, if you find time, drop me a review, eh? It's a bit like liquid encouragement. Only I am too young to drink and it probably wouldn't taste good anyway :/


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